


pleasantly surprised

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Series: a pleasant undoing [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 15:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Clarke and Lexa host a brunch for their closest friends and family. Expected shenanigans ensue. Fluff abounds.





	pleasantly surprised

**Author's Note:**

> I gave this to my wife to read last night. She cried and then kissed me, which feels like indisputable success. I love these two, and I love writing them in this wonderful world of beer and best friends. Everything I write for them continues to be an ongoing love letter to my wife by whose love and support I am perpetually inspired.

“Hey, babe!” 

Clarke’s voice greets her from out of sight as Lexa toes off her running shoes without bothering to untie them. She deposits them neatly, beside a pair of Clarke’s shoes, against the wall of the entryway as the front door clicks shut. Frank, their recently adopted rescue, comes skittering across the tiled flooring in a bundle of excitement, panting and pushing his cold, black nose into Lexa’s calf muscle. Squatting to her haunches with a grin, she scratches the ringlets of white fur behind his lopsided ears. 

When she rounds the open doorway into the kitchen, Clarke is stood at the island chopping fresh herbs. The air is fragrant and the kitchen is warm, awash in bright, morning sunlight that reflects off the harbor. Music plays softly and Clarke is radiant. Lexa smiles.

“Hey.” 

“How was the run?” Clarke asks without looking up from the cutting board. 

Lexa heads for the fridge to remove a canteen of water. “It was good. The temperature along the water is perfect today.” 

“I miss summer,” Clarke sighs and nearly pouts. 

“You love the fall.” Lexa takes small, measured sips then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s your most preferred season. You haven’t stopped talking about the foliage along High Street for weeks.” 

“Still, I miss summer. The boat. The beach.”

“Clarke, it was practically summer weather last weekend. We were on the boat for hours on Saturday.”

Clarke’s pout intensifies. “Bikinis.” 

This produces an actual laugh, and Lexa shakes her head. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll parade around in swimsuits in the dead of winter. You keep it warm enough in here.”

Clarke’s face breaks into a bright smile as she looks up from her chopping. “Promise?” 

Lexa smiles as she takes a longer sip of ice-cold water from her canteen. Clarke is dressed for the brunch they’ll be hosting shortly. Casual in her striped sleeveless top and fitted jeans, but nicer than her typical Sunday morning wardrobe of pajama shorts and baggy tee shirts. Nice enough for Lexa to take notice. 

“It smells good in here,” she says, moving closer to where Clarke is stood chopping. A hand finds its way beneath the loose hem of Clarke shirt as Lexa’s mouth softly touches Clarke’s bare shoulder. “And, you look nice.”

“Oh my god—you’re so _ sweaty_.” Clarke squirms from Lexa’s touch with a laugh, all the more incentive to move in closer, bodily pinning her against the edge of the island. “Lexa!”

Laughing, she finally steps away as Clarke turns from the counter with an expression that some might mistake for exasperation. Three years on, Lexa knows better. Still smiling, she takes another pull off the water bottle before using the hem of her shirt to wipe the perspiration from her face and neck. 

“I’m going to shower.” 

“Good, you stink,” Clarke laughs, poking a finger against Lexa’s bared abdomen just before her damp running shirt drops back into place. “And, your shirt is soaked. I love you, but I’m not changing my outfit just because all that adrenaline has made you handsy.” 

Lexa heads for the stairs with a laugh. “Drenched in sweat from a long run used to do it for you, you know.” 

She pulls her shirt over her head as she climbs, stopping at the landing to turn towards Clarke who has trailed behind her and paused at the base of the spiral staircase. 

“Oh, I’m definitely still appreciating the view … _ from afar_.” 

Lexa’s aim is impeccable. The damp shirt hits Clarke square in the face as she squeals in disgust, and Frank barks while dancing at her feet. Lexa laughs all the way to the shower. 

:::

“Better?”

Clarke looks up from the big block cutting board with a smile as Lexa shuffles into the kitchen for a second time. She is now slicing strawberries and mangoes, and Lexa does a slow spin as if to show off her clean clothes and freshly blow-dried curls. 

Clarke leans forward, wordlessly requesting a quick kiss, and then hums against Lexa’s mouth when she closes the distance. “Well, you definitely smell better,” she says as they separate. 

“What can I do?” Lexa surveys Clarke’s array of prep stations along the island countertop—freshly diced fruit, ramekins of chopped herbs, and blocks of cheese, waiting to be grated. Aromas of ground coffee brewing and warm pastries baking have begun to fill the kitchen. “Do you need any help?”

She is still mostly relegated to making fried eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches for them to eat, but over the years Lexa has found her place in the kitchen. Clarke is as efficient as she is talented as a home chef, but she always appreciates Lexa’s company as she cooks. She often works alongside Clarke as an adequate sous chef. 

“Grate that cheese for me, and I’ll do dirty things to you later.”

Lexa responds to Clarke’s titillating grin with an arched brow and smirk of her own. “Go on.”

“Honestly, after we survive this brunch, I fully plan to do dirty things with you either way.” Clarke widens her grin and bats her eyelashes. “But, the grating would still be very much appreciated.” 

Lexa returns her smile while reaching for a wedge of cheese. “Okay, how much of these do you need?” 

“I would do half a block of the gruyere and fontina, go heavy on the sharp cheddar.” 

Lexa begins her task, dropping a few shreds of cheese to the floor where Frank sits expectantly, tail wagging against the wood floors like a miniature dry mop. 

“I saw that.”

Lexa smiles over at Clarke, whose eyes remain on her knife as it deftly slices a strawberry. “Saw what?”

Moments of comforting silence pass, and then Clarke releases a long-suffering sigh. “Is it too early to start drinking?” 

“What’s got you feeling so anxious?”

“I’m not anxious just … anticipatory.”

“Well, you’re certainly acting anxious,” Lexa counters. And then, her voice softens to gentle concern. “We’ve hosted brunch a hundred times, Clarke.” 

“Okay, but you know this brunch, in particular, is going to be different. You don’t feel at all anxious?”

Poised to respond, Lexa sets down the cheese grater and opens her mouth just as Clarke continues to ramble on with her train of thought. 

“Of course you don’t feel anxious—you’re the most even-keeled person I’ve ever met. How many times in your life have you been nervous about anything? Twice?”

Smiling warmly, Lexa shrugs. “At least three times.” Her eyes slide to the bowl of fruit that she knows Clarke has been marinating in a light but sugary glaze of orange liqueur. “How much of that fruit do you think we’d have to eat to feel a little drunk? Or, I could slip some amaretto into your coffee.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Clarke laughs. “You know that if Abby shows up to a social event and can tell that I’ve been drinking before any guests have arrived, I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Lexa moves in closer, and this time, feels Clarke sink against her as arms coil around her waist. She kisses Clarke’s hairline, the skin of her shoulder. Tender endearments that she has expressed hundreds of times. She inhales as Clarke exhales, a synthesis of their familiar proximity. 

_This feels different_, Lexa thinks. 

There is a subtle distinction that buzzes through her, warming her skin and causing her stomach to flutter. An embrace that could be almost perfunctory at this stage, is somehow much more. She wonders briefly if Clarke feels it too. 

“I love you.” 

“That helps,” Clarke mumbles, having nestled into the crook of Lexa’s neck and shoulder. 

Lexa takes a quick breath, settling the nerves that she conceals too well. “And, Frank loves you too.” 

She glances down to the floor, Clarke’s gaze quickly following, to see their fluffy companion bumping against their shins, not wanting to be left out of the affection. 

“Oh, I love you too, Frank!” Clarke squats, cooing as she accepts sloppy kisses and scoops the small, eager pup into her arms, her anxieties momentarily forgotten. 

:::

“Which one of you is pregnant?”

“_Raven _ …”

Clarke is always scolding, exasperated, appalled, or any combination of all three, and Lexa doesn’t know why she still bothers. In all the years that she’s known her, Raven has never once been cowed to socially appropriate conversations no matter the reprimand. 

“Don’t get mad at me—you’re the one who’s acting weird.” Raven sits across from them with a calculating stare, flanked by Lincoln and Anya and wielding her fork like a weapon. The tines point accusingly at she and Clarke as Raven says, “Something is up.” 

Lexa’s gaze flicks to Anya for any hint of culpability. To no surprise, her face remains placid and untelling. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’m not pregnant!” 

“Esquire?”

“_No one _ is pregnant,” Clarke reiterates. 

The oblong dining table is overflowing with food and drinks. Clarke’s mother, who sits beside Lexa, makes an appreciative sound as she takes a bite of quiche. 

“This is wonderful, Clarke.”

Clarke offers a grateful smile for Abby’s efforts to redirect the conversation, but the end result is predictably futile. Raven’s lines of questioning are often like a speeding, unmanned freight train. Virtually unstoppable. 

“The food really is excellent,” Lincoln echoes with his soft smile.

“Quiet, you,” Raven snaps playfully. “Come on, Griffin. Spill.” 

Beneath the table, Lexa finds Clarke’s fingers. 

“We wanted you all here to tell you that—“ Clarke exhales, squeezing Lexa’s fingers. “Lexa and I got married.”

The house falls quiet for three, tense seconds, and then Octavia speaks, her voice taking on a sharp tone of mistrust. 

“You mean you’re _ getting _ married.” 

“We were married last week,” Lexa corrects with an easy smile. 

Octavia blinks slowly, her gaze calculating between the two of them. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes,” Clarke answers, the waver in her voice beginning to settle now that they’ve aired this secret to their closest friends. “In New York.” 

Early autumn in her city. Lingering summer warmth but with a touch of color on all the trees in the parks. The promise of changing seasons ahead. Clarke stood in the courthouse in jeans and one of Lexa’s favorite tee shirts, wearing the brightest smile Lexa has ever seen. It was nothing she had ever planned for herself and somehow everything she had ever wanted in a ceremonial exchange of vows. That it was Clarke sat beside her, signing her name just below Lexa’s, no doubt made all the difference. 

“You run away to New York,” Raven is saying, “exchange some secret nuptials, slink back into town as if nothing has changed—“

“Okay, you’re being a little dramatic. The plan wasn’t really that nefarious,” Clarke says.

“—and then wait _ an entire week _to tell us?” 

Lexa tries very hard not to be entertained by Raven’s exasperation, but she finds herself fighting a smile as Clarke’s best friend struggles to work out the new information. 

“You were on that extended project at work,” Clarke reminds her. 

“I was in Rhode Island, not orbiting in space.”

“To be fair,” Octavia chimes in, “you never check your phone when you’re locked into a project.”

“You could have texted me,” Raven argues. 

“I wasn’t going to tell you that I got married over text!” 

Lexa watches the pure shock and mild affront ebb from Raven’s features. “Oh my god, you’re _ married_.”

“Yeah,” Clarke smiles, squeezing again to Lexa’s fingers. 

“Hang on, why are you not more shocked by this?” Raven has turned her attention to Abby, who sits at Lexa’s right-hand side. 

“Oh,” Clarke clears her throat after finishing a sip of her mimosa. “My mom was there.” 

“Clarke asked for my discretion,” Abby responds calmly. “Of course I deferred to hers and Lexa’s wishes.” 

“I can’t believe,” Raven says to Abby in dismay, shaking her head like an unforgiving betrayal, “after all these years, you’re still playing favorites with Clarke by keeping secrets from your other children.”

At this, Abby laughs and the atmosphere around the table decompresses. Lincoln extends his glass across the table towards Lexa. 

“Cheers, buddy. Welcome to the club.” 

“Thanks.” Lexa smiles, clinking their glasses together. Clarke’s hand is still in hers, and Lexa’s palm suddenly perspires. 

“Yeah, took you two long enough.” Octavia’s grin is smaller, more resigned, but she too extends her glass to join Lexa’s and Lincoln’s. 

“Can you estimate just how long you plan to sulk about this?” Clarke is saying to Raven as everyone else tucks into their food. 

Raven clicks her tongue, though she is smiling as she says, “Ten, fifteen years tops.” 

Anya has had her arm draped carelessly along the back of Raven’s chair since they sat down, and now briefly runs her fingers across Raven’s shoulder cap. “Relax, I got some pretty nice photos of the courthouse I can show you.” 

Raven nearly flinches in surprise. “You were—ugh, of _ course _ you were there.” She huffs in defeat, rolling her eyes and reaching for her half-empty glass of champagne and orange juice (_heavy on the champagne_). “Okay, somebody needs to get me a refill because I need all the details and this mimosa is going to go down quickly.”

“It was simple and more-or-less unplanned,” Clarke explains. “We drove down last weekend to visit Gus. My mom was already there on business, and … it just felt right.” 

Lexa picks up the thread where Clarke leaves off. “We chose the courthouse where Gus signed the papers to make my adoption official.” She looks at Clarke, heart flapping wildly. “It was nice.”

Something softens in Raven’s features at Lexa’s words, and she exhales as Anya is refilling her glass. “Okay, that is some cute shit.” 

“You sure you’re not mad at me?” Clarke frets.

“Of course I’m not mad at you, dumbass. You surprised the ever-loving hell out of me, but—I mean, jesus, you two have been grossing us out as a married couple for years.” 

Clarke blows a kiss at her from across the table. “Next time I get married on a whim, I’ll text you.” 

The humor drops from Raven’s face as she places a hand flat against the table. “I swear on my love of science, Clarke, if you ever soil this marriage with Esquire, I will seriously consider blocking your number indefinitely.”

Lexa grins, oddly comforted by Raven’s threatening tone. “Thanks, Reyes.”

“I’m obviously kidding!” Clarke leans over to kiss the line of Lexa’s jaw as if to underscore her joke. 

“Okay, so let’s hear it. Tell me more,” Raven demands. 

Lexa smiles, remembering the day. “Gus took us out for ramen afterwards.” 

“Then I took them out for shots,” Anya says. 

“It really was quite lovely,” Abby chimes in, understandably eager to finally have the freedom to speak of their nuptials. “The courthouse, I mean. And dinner. I’d rather not know about all the drinking that followed.” 

“Aw come on, Mama Griffin. You know you’ve got some good kids,” Octavia says.

Abby agrees without hesitation. “The very best.” 

Lexa feels her chest bloom with warmth to be included in the sentiment, and luckier still to have acquired such a profoundly superior family. 

:::

Clarke, her mother, and their other guests have moved into the sitting room while Lexa tidies the kitchen. Still within earshot, she listens for the bright notes of Clarke’s laughter and curbs her own smile at the sound. Anya hands her items off the dining table while Lexa wraps the leftovers and loads the dishwasher. The routine between them is practiced and familiar, running through motions they have done together since childhood. 

“Keeping this little secret of yours is going to have me in the dog house. No offense, Frank.” Anya looks to the dog that has fallen asleep near their feet where she and Lexa are leaned against the island. 

The kitchen now more-or-less spotless, Lexa pushes off the countertop and reaches into the fridge for two beers, popping their lids before offering one to her sister. 

“My condolences,” she answers with a grin. “When do you go back?”

“Few days.” 

Lexa sips her beer. “Plenty of time to reconcile then. Anyway, she doesn’t seem upset anymore.”

“At you and Clarke, no. At me?” Anya runs a hand through her hair with a long-suffering exhale that brings a smile to Lexa’s face.

She is easily amused by seeing Anya—so stoic, so stable, so disaffected by almost everything else in her life—navigate the delicate nuances of a sustained relationship. Particularly with Raven Reyes. 

“What?” Anya scowls as she notices Lexa’s amusement. 

Lexa shrugs, finishing another sip of beer. “Nothing. You’re just very domesticated these days.”

“Says the married one.” 

Lexa’s stomach jumps as she thinks of Clarke sitting in the next room. “It’s not so bad. You should try it.”

“It’s been seven days, kid. Talk to me in seven years.” 

“I will.” 

Anya’s narrowed gaze moves from Lexa’s smug confidence to the floor. “Your dog is sleeping beside a Yankees emblem.” 

Without turning around, Lexa knows she will find Frank curled around the offensive dog toy—a plush baseball with navy stitching, emblazoned with the infamous logo—that arrived to their house the day after the cursed New York baseball team made the playoffs. Her shoulders tense even as she rolls her eyes. 

“It’s a situation that is being handled.” 

“It looks like he’s fairly attached to it,” Anya prods. 

“The dog’s sight is impaired, Anya. He cannot be held accountable for poor judgement.” 

Frank, having lost an eye to irreparable damage before he was rescued, had immediately stolen Lexa’s heart. One look at him at the adoption event earlier that summer, and she knew he belonged with her and Clarke. They have been fairly inseparable ever since. 

Anya very nearly smiles. “If you say so.” 

“You’re involved in a serious, long-distance relationship with a devout supporter of the Yankees—is this really the fight you want to be having right now?” 

A barely audible laugh—just loud enough for Lexa to hear it—and Anya concedes with a bowed head. “Clarke won’t let you throw it away, huh?” 

Lexa takes another sip of beer then exhales in frustration, her eyes finally dragging over to Frank and that damn baseball. “No.” 

:::

Brunch turns into beers and board games and more coffee, Abby excusing herself after a few hours to rest before her flight the following morning. She leaves them all with lingering hugs, motherly reminders to stay safe, and reiterated congratulations to Clarke and Lexa. By late afternoon, after another round of coffee for their guests, the house is finally empty and quiet, and Clarke collapses onto the sofa with a soft grunt of exhaustion. 

Lexa sits at the opposite end, near her feet, and pulls Clarke’s legs into her lap. She begins to mindlessly rub her thumbs into Clarke’s calves as her head tips back and her eyes fall closed. They are peaceful for several minutes before Clarke’s voice scratches out softly. 

“That went well.”

Lexa hums. “Raven’s outburst notwithstanding?” 

“She was being _ really _ dramatic.”

“Have you met Raven before today?” 

Clarke laughs, poking her foot into Lexa’s stomach. “Hush.” 

At the sound of her laughter, Lexa’s head rolls to the side. She opens her eyes to find Clarke already looking at her with drowsy eyes. “You’re about to fall asleep.”

Clarke hums as Lexa’s hands continue to work against the tense muscles of her legs and feet. 

“Is this impending nap just a precursor to you ravaging me later?” 

“Mmm. Yes.” As Clarke smiles, her eyes fall closed again. “Need to restore energy.” 

“Okay, I’m going to go read for a bit.” 

Clarke pouts as Lexa shifts from under her legs and stands beside the couch to stretch her limbs. 

“No. Stay and cuddle.”

Lexa bends to kiss Clarke’s protruding lip. “I’ll cuddle you later when we have less clothes on.” 

“I feel objectified.” Still with her eyes closed, Clarke finds the crook of Lexa’s elbow, keeping her close with a loose grip. 

“You’re welcome,” Lexa smiles, and kisses her again. 

:::

It’s just under an hour later, the sky streaking in hues of burnt orange and fading pink, when Lexa glances up from her book to see Clarke shuffling towards her. She is still wrapped in a blanket that she must have grabbed from the sofa during her nap. Lexa smiles at her sleepy frown and places her book on the wide arm of the deck chair just before Clarke crawls onto her lap. 

“Hi.”

“Aren’t you cold out here?” 

“Much warmer now,” Lexa says, hugging Clarke closer as they shift against the wooden chair to find an optimal snuggling position. “How was the nap?” 

“Mmm,” Clarke hums. “Productive.”

Her voice is that fraction of an octave lower, that sensational rasp that sends a tingling chill across Lexa’s shoulders. 

“Productive?” 

“Yeah, I had a nice dream about my wife.”

Lexa can’t help the small giggle that erupts as the tips of her ears go red. It will take some getting used to—having a wife, being someone’s wife—referring to Clarke as such and hearing the same in return. Thinking of herself in this way still feels a bit like walking around in shoes that are too big for her feet. A week on, and being Clarke’s _ wife _ has not yet lost its clumsy weight. 

A nervous energy, not unlike the jittery uncertainties that new relationships breed, has been Lexa’s stasis for a solid week. She likens this new adjustment to the flurry of unrestrained feelings she experienced during those early weeks with Clarke. When she first reached for Lexa’s hand in public without warning, or the effort it took to calm her anxious breathing when they undressed each other for the first time. Lexa’s nerves are similarly frayed now, replaying this new epithet in her mind over and over. 

My _ wife_. 

She focuses instead on Clarke’s potentially filthy dream and clears her throat. “I’d like to hear more about that.” 

In response, Clarke laughs against her neck and kisses just below her ear. “I bet you would.” 

The next kiss, pressed against Lexa’s mouth, is even more languid, growing a ball of heat in the pit of her stomach. “So, about that dream.” 

“Yeah—can we go inside now?” Clarke laughs against her lips, stealing another kiss as Lexa’s hands slip beneath the wooly throw blanket to find an excessive amount of bare skin. “I’m officially cold.”

“Clarke, you’re not wearing any pants.”

“You know I can’t fall asleep in jeans, babe.” 

As she stands with a smile, nearly tipping Clarke out of her lap if not for a sure grip, Lexa thinks of all the other things she knows about the woman clinging to her shoulders. 

Not just how she takes her coffee or her favorite movie, but the brand of dish soap she prefers and the way her voice shatters just before she cries. The slow rumble of her snores and the color of her eyes when they darken in a flash of anger.

That she is selfless to a fault, often putting her own wellness at risk for the sake of others. She knows the songs that Clarke refuses to listen to because they are such visceral reminders of Jake. Lexa knows when she needs space and the times she will want comfort, even if she is too scared to ask.

These and so many more—the myriad quirks that arise out of sustained intimacy. 

Once indoors, Lexa deposits Clarke onto the bed before falling gracelessly beside her in a tangle of limbs. 

“So, the big secret’s out. Everyone that matters knows that we’re married.” Lexa swallows. “How do you feel?” 

Clarke rolls over with a sigh, her eyes scanning the ceiling above them. “Better. A lot better, actually.” 

“Yeah? No turning back now. You’re officially stuck with me.” 

Even as she jokes, her heart hammers a steady beat. The light teasing easily drags Clarke’s gaze back to her, and Lexa tempers her smile enough to accept a lingering press of Clarke’s mouth. 

She answers as they slowly break apart, her hands latched at the back of Lexa’s neck. “I think we both know I was stuck with you a long time ago.” 

::: 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Orange for her magic beta work and helpful edits :)


End file.
